John Gardner: No Deals, Mr. Bond

‘Casing surfaced!’

The rating turned the wheel with a slight clang to unlock the forward hatch. Fresh, cold air poured in from the small circle above. Joe Preedy was first up the ladder, assisted by the dim red glow of the torch held by the rating. Halfway up the ladder, Dave Andrews took one end of the inflatable from Bond, hauling it up to Preedy and together the two men heaved the bulky rubber lozenge on to the casing. Bond followed them, the rating passing up to him the paddles and the light-weight engine, the latter among the most heavily classified equipment of the Special Boat Squadron. Easy to handle, with small propeller blades, the IPI can run effectively and almost silently on a fuel supply from a self-sealing tank at the rear of the inflatable.

Finally, Bond ran the air tube up to Preedy and by the time he reached the slippery metal casing the inflatable had taken shape, a long, slim, low cutter fitted with bucket seats and hand grabs.

Bond checked that the two-way radio was firmly attached to his wet suit and balanced himself on the casing while the two SBS men launched the inflatable. The rating held a line from the shallow rounded bow until the paddles and IPI, were transferred. Bond then slid from the casing, taking his place in the stern. The rating let go of the line forward, and the inflatable was jerked away from the submarine.

They allowed the little craft to drift clear and Bond took a quick reading from the luminous compass he carried round his neck. He called the reading to the SBS officers, then placed the compass on the plastic well in front of him and using his paddle as a rudder, gave the order to make way. They paddled with long, steady strokes, achieving a respectable speed through the inky blackness. After two minutes, Bond checked their course, and as he did so he heard the hiss of water as the submarine submerged. Around them the night merged with the sea, and it took almost half an hour of hard paddling and constant checking of the compass before they could distinguish the East German coastline. It was going to be a long pull to the shore. If all went well, they would be able to use the engine for a quick sprint back to the submarine.

Over an hour later they were within striking distance of the coast, heading right on course for the safe inlet, its tiny spit of sand showing light against the surrounding darkness. They allowed the craft to drift in, alert and ready, for they were now at their most vulnerable. Andrews, in the stern, raised his unshaded torch and flashed two fast Morse code Vs towards the small stretch of sand. The answer, four long flashes, was returned immediately.

‘They’re here,’ Bond murmured.

‘I only hope they’re on their bloody own,’ muttered Preedy.

As the inflatable drifted on to the beach, Andrews leapt into the water and held the bow rope to steady the craft. Two dark figures came running to the water’s edge.

‘ Meine Ruh’ ist hin .’ Bond felt a little absurd quoting Goethe – a poet of whom he knew little – in the middle of the night on a deserted East German beach: ‘My peace is gone’.

‘ Mein Herz ist schwer ,’ the answer came back from one of the figures on the beach, completing the couplet: ‘My heart is heavy’.

The three men helped the pair on board and quickly had them seated amidships. Andrews hauled on the forward rope to bring the inflatable around as Bond set the reciprocal course on the compass. Within seconds they were paddling out again. In thirty minutes they would start the engine and give the first signal to the waiting submarine.

Back in the control room, the sonar operator had been monitoring their progress by means of a short-distance signalling device installed in the inflatable. At the same time he swept the surrounding area, while his partner did the same on a wider scale.

‘Looks as though they’re coming back, sir,’ said the senior sonar operator.

‘Let me know when they start their engine.’ Stewart sounded tense. He had no idea what the funny business was about, and he did not really want to know. All he hoped for was the safe return of his passengers and whoever they brought with them, followed by an untroubled run home to base.

‘Aye-aye, sir. I think . . . Oh, Christ . . .’ The sonar operator stopped short as the signal came loud into his headphones and the blip appeared on his screen. ‘They’ve got company.’ He resumed his commentary. ‘Bearing zero-seven-four. He’s coming from behind the headland on their starboard side. Fast and light. I think it’s a Pchela.’

Stewart swore aloud, something he rarely did in front of his crew. A Pchela was a Russian-built patrol hydrofoil. Though now elderly, carrying two pairs of 13mm machine guns and the old Pot Drum search radar, these craft were fast and formidable in both shallow water and choppy seas.

‘It’s a Pchela signature, sir, and he’s locked on to them, closing rapidly,’ said the sonar operator.

In the inflatable they heard the heavy drumming of the patrol boat’s engines almost as they left the shore, pulling away with the paddles.

‘Shall we use the engine? Make a run for it?’ Dave Andrews shouted back to Bond.

‘We’ll never make it.’

Bond knew what would have to be done, and he didn’t like to contemplate the consequences. He was spared making any decision by Andrews who leaned back and shouted,

‘Let him come abreast and be ready for the bang. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll make my way back overland providing the limpet doesn’t get me!’ He was quickly over the side, disappearing into the sea.

Bond knew that Andrews carried two small limpet charges that, placed properly, would blow holes directly into the fuel tanks of the hydrofoil. He also knew they would probably blow the SBS man to pieces.

At that moment the searchlight hit them and the patrol craft dropped speed, sinking from the long, ski-like foils which ran under the hull and settling on her bows. A command in German came over the loudhailer, across the closing gap of water.

‘Halt! Halt! We are taking you on board so that you can state your business. This is a military order. If you do not stop we will open fire on you. Heave to!’

‘Raise your arms above your head,’ Bond told Preedy. ‘Show you’re unarmed, and do as you’re told. There will be an explosion. When it happens, drop your heads between your knees . . .’

‘And kiss your arse goodbye,’ Preedy muttered.

‘. . . and cover your heads with your arms.’

The patrol boat was low in the water now, engines idle as she drifted in towards the inflatable, the searchlight unwavering. The gap had closed to almost fifty yards before the bows of the patrol boat disappeared in a blinding white flame turning to crimson. A second after the flash they heard the ripping of the explosion, followed by a deeper roar.

Bond raised his head and saw that Andrews had set the mines perfectly. He would, Bond thought. Any good SBS man would know the exact position for maximum effect on all Eastern Bloc craft, and Andrews had executed the task faultlessly. The boat was on fire her entire length and her bows with their distinctive foils were lifting high out of the water. She went down in less than a minute.

The inflatable had been blown sideways by the blast and was skidding out of control over the water. Bond reached for the light-weight engine. He lifted it over the stern, pushed it well down in position in the water and pressed the ignition button. The little IPI buzzed into life, the propeller blades whirling. Holding its grab handle, Bond could both steer the inflatable and control its speed.

Bond was alarmed at their vulnerability, for the whole area was illuminated by the flames from the doomed patrol boat. Half a dozen queries went through his mind – had the patrol already alerted other vessels along this closely guarded stretch of coast? Was the inflatable now coming up on a land-based or fast ship’s radar system? Had Dave Andrews got clear after setting the limpets? Doubtful. Would the submarine have gone deep, preparing to crawl out to avoid detection? That was certainly a possibility, for a nuclear sub was more precious to its captain than Operation Seahawk. He thought on these things as Preedy took up the navigation, using his own compass to guide them.